Chapter 51 - Stalker vs. Stalker (6)

Guns and bombs, weapons collectively known as “firearms,” were held in exceedingly low regard in this premodern fantasy world.

The so-called “poor man's weapons.” And rightly so. In a world with mana and Line of Fire Detection, ranged projectile weapons were never made from fine materials or by skilled craftsmen.

Even when made, they only ended up in the hands of mediocre fighters shooting at others of their kind, missing most of their shots and spilling blood without romance, chivalry, or justice.

Thus, the mere fact that someone carried a gun told you how skilled they were. If they used explosives, there was nothing left to assess.

The materials needed to produce sufficient quantities of high-quality mana bombs were controlled by governments as strategic resources. Preparing enough to burn down a building was therefore next to impossible.

At most, the casualties would be minor. What was there to fear? There might be dozens dead or wounded, but looked at another way, that meant operatives planted at the cost of all that trouble would be expended for a paltry return.

But even a kitchen knife could hurt someone if thrust into their body. Firearms might be useless against superhumans, but to civilians, they were death itself. These convenient tools of murder, sowing death with a pull of the trigger, bestowed inexplicable courage and exhilaration on those who held them.

“Whew... Hah...”

“Why are you back already? You were supposed to stay at your post!”

“No, fuck... What am I supposed to do with that knight prowling around? If I'd lingered any longer, I might've been stabbed, like last time!”

“You chickenshit bastard... That knight has to guard the brat. He can't chase you far from the house anyway. All you had to do was run!”

“Then do it yourself. You're only saying that because you haven't seen that bastard swing his sword up close.”

The man shuddered as he grumbled. His assignment was to watch the house where Isabelle, the hero's daughter, was staying.

However extraordinary her talent might be, she was only a kid. Following her or spying on her should have been easy. But a guardian changed things. A well-trained knight serving as her bodyguard made matters worse.

Bullets were useless against knights. Everyone knew that. Having to creep within range of one of those men with nothing but a gun was no different from putting your head in a lion's mouth.

“So why haven't we heard from upstairs when it's almost time to act? I really can't take this shit anymore. It's been a week already.”

“Sir Daionar should reach Prizhenkaya today or tomorrow. Then we'll probably start the day after tomorrow.”

“I've lost count of how many times I've heard that name. Is he actually coming?”

“They say he's almost here. Apparently he came on foot because the border inspections have gotten so strict.”

“Good God, all the way here from Droan?”

The men walked through the alleys, talking in hushed voices. Keeping track of Isabelle's whereabouts hardly mattered unless she suddenly moved house today. She only needed to be there on the day of the operation.

“I see. Daionar Erickson.”

The two men walking through the deserted alley froze. Their eyes met.

—You were followed?!

—No, I was being really careful.

—Then what the hell is that, you bastard?

Having exchanged that conversation in glances, the men bolted.

Who the stranger was didn't matter. Only two things did: he knew the name “Daionar Erickson,” and they hadn't noticed him coming close enough to overhear them.

In short, this mysterious man was strong. In such situations, the weak always resorted to the same tactic.

“Fuck!”

BANG!!

The man in front pulled a small bead from inside his clothes, flung it behind him, and ran straight for the mouth of the alley. The bead exploded, filling the alley with thick smoke. A smoke bomb. Cheap and nontoxic.

Ivan chuckled and walked after the fleeing men. He was in no hurry. He knew that a powerful man who somehow caught up despite walking more slowly inspired greater terror than one who ran them down.

Interrogation was a delicate art. Indiscriminate shouting, torture, and threats were poor moves that blurred the clarity of the information. Obtaining accurate intelligence had to begin with dismantling the foundations of the subject's psyche.

Ivan continued through the smoke in the direction the men had fled.

HSSSS...

HAAH.

Breathing deeply, remembering the past.

* * *

Esidisi gazed blankly at the night sky from her bedroom terrace.

“But Uncle is dead.”

Even her father had paid his respects upon her uncle's death. The unsettled political situation had prevented him from attending the funeral in person, but for a long time after returning home, he had drunk himself into a gloomy stupor.

She absently raised a hand, hesitantly holding it at about the height where it would cover his mouth.

“But still...”

Without the beard, he did seem a little similar. Then again, she had been too frightened to look him straight in the face, and he seemed like an entirely different person, too. Blazing blue eyes, their clean contours, the sharp lines of his brows and nose.

Yes, perhaps there was a resemblance. Or...

“Oh, come on.”

Esidisi shook her head vigorously. It was a wicked thought.

Uncle Ivan had died a great warrior. She had heard that he had slaughtered one of the Seven Dragon Generals at the cost of his own life, and that his sacrifice had allowed a few of his comrades to return alive.

That was an extraordinary feat. In those days, even the Hero's Party had needed to attack together to face one of the Seven Dragon Generals.

Confusing such a noble man with someone else merely because they “looked alike” was nothing short of an insult to him.

Uncle Ivan would never try to seduce Isabelle, sleep with Professor Enrique, and stalk university students to satisfy his sexual proclivities, all at the same time. (Naturally.)

Ashamed that she had even equated Uncle Ivan with such a vile man, Esidisi bowed her head solemnly.

Droan followed the faith of the God of Light, the common religion of the United Kingdoms. Yet its traditional customs had blended into the faith, producing a strangely altered vision of the afterlife.

They believed that great warriors continued an eternal struggle at the God of Light's side after death. Since darkness was light's eternal enemy, those warriors raised their swords against it on their god's behalf in the depths of night.

The stars were the traces of that battle. The countless stars overhead were warriors who had departed to stand beside their god.

Thinking that Ivan's star must be somewhere up there too, Esidisi bowed respectfully and whispered.

“Uncle, I miss you. A little more lately. You told me to play an instrument, so I took one up. It isn't easy, but I'm working hard. I've made lots of friends, too. I'm doing well.”

The stars didn't come out during the day, so he wouldn't know what happened then.

“So please watch over me. When I graduate, once I've gotten good enough, I'll play an epic for you before your gravestone. About how your sacrifice wasn't in vain, and how it left the world so beautiful.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she clutched her fiddle and sniffled. She didn't dare play at night. She couldn't let her uncle hear her rough, unpolished playing.

And so Esidisi resolutely wiped away her tears and stood. After the confusing events of the day, an early night was out of the question. She had no classes tomorrow anyway. She would take a nighttime stroll.

“Uncle Morde! Let's go out for a bit!”

“Where?”

“Nowhere in particular!”

“Well, all right.”

Downstairs, Morde rose from tending his weapons with a shrug. Lightly dressed, the two stepped out into Prizhenkaya's summer streets.

* * *

Great King Einar had countless sworn brothers. Huscarls, the king's trusted retainers. Killing machines who willingly obeyed their king solely out of bright, happy emotions like loyalty, friendship, love (not in any strange sense), and hope.

These cheerful slaughterers generally lived in the royal palace. They devoted their lives to feasting every night, consuming meat and liquor, and fighting among themselves.

To Ivan, they were organized thugs. They were organized and they were violent, so he wasn't wrong.

But even thugs had their own code. Theirs consisted of a single law: “the Boss.”

As long as he kept them supplied with meat and liquor and maintained enough martial prowess to earn their respect, no armed force on the continent was more loyal or formidable than these thugs.

Thus, betrayal by a Huscarl was exceedingly rare. The important word here was “rare.” The word implied that it had happened in history.

And as history proved, what had happened once could happen twice. Wasn't betrayal by someone trusted always the most devastating?

* * *

“Spring for the People?”

“Yes!! Th-that's all! I d-don't know anything else...! Damn it... S-so that stuff. Stop using that...”

“The healing potion?”

“Bullshit! How the fuck is that a healing potion?!”

Ivan looked down at the poor man, delirious with pain, then straightened and stood. Even that slight movement made the man gasp, flinch violently, and curl into himself.

“Spring for the People. Quite poetic for a rebel group's name.”

Ivan smiled bitterly. Incongruous as it was in this barbaric, premodern society, the man's organization had the character of a multinational human rights group. On the surface, of course.

'One general and one sword must not hold sway over the vast majority...'

Wasn't that a slogan for a democratic revolution? Yet Ivan knew it was nothing more than sweet-sounding propaganda.

Unlike Earth, this world had mana. That all-purpose resource was a special commodity that could quite literally be made into whatever one wished.

It enhanced personal might enough to split mountains and cleave the sky, and sharpened human hearing, smell, and sight to animal levels. Woven into magic, it could blow apart fortresses and slaughter legions. That sort of special commodity.

The overwhelming force a single individual could attain through talent and effort alone rendered democracy meaningless in itself. Having lived in a democratic society, he was all the more certain of that.

Contrary to a common misconception, rights did not arise merely from duties. They were built upon a social system in which those rights could be won and preserved.

And that social system was, naturally, maintained through force. Overwhelming force. The driving power that enabled a state to compel individuals to fulfill their obligations.

As long as mana existed, people could not be equal. Sad, but true. All the more so in a world with demons, elves, and Dwarves.

This, then, was malicious propaganda meant to delude the masses with pleasant words.

And there was one more thing.

'An international organization in a world with no means of communication beyond telegrams and letters.'

Establishing an international organization had been extremely difficult even in a world where telephone and video calls were commonplace. Yet here was one in a premodern age.

Naturally, someone with enough power to sustain an organization of that scale had to be behind it.

Wasn't that paradoxical? A democratic organization created by someone in power. At first glance, it might look like a splendid “revolution from above,” but the world was no fairy-tale dreamland.

Those in power always acted rationally in pursuit of their ambitions.

“Alexander. I don't know where you are or what you've been doing, but you're certainly clever.”

Ivan gave a dry chuckle and shook his head.

'Targeting the Hero's Party's children was itself part of the propaganda.'

Their slogan was “salvation for the masses ruled by a powerful few.”

The Hero's Party was the foremost symbol of the old order, the embodiment of that powerful few. Their individual might could rival or exceed a nation's.

So if the reason for targeting their children was terrorism against hereditary personal power, it sounded plausible. It would be a tangible achievement to display to the masses they sought to deceive.

Ivan nodded as the events of the past finally began to make sense.

'The field-exercise attack wasn't a coincidence, then.'

His eyes narrowed as he recalled the remnants of the demon army who had learned the location and nature of the field exercise with astonishing precision and attempted to assassinate a child of the Hero's Party.

Someone in Krasilof's royal government, military administration, or civil administration had sold them the information.

And this would be no more than a preview of countless terrorist attacks to come. An organization of this scale would hardly be discouraged by one or two failures.

'Alexander.'

Ivan smiled bitterly. What was that once so cheerful young royal thinking now? What was he planning?

What did he want? What could he gain by dismantling the monarchy, bringing down the United Kingdoms, and alienating the people from the nobility's authority?

And why had Veolgrin been pursuing Alexander? Where had Maximilien disappeared to?

The thoughts piled up, layer upon layer. Ivan sighed.

The simplest way to unravel a tangled knot was to cut through the knot itself.

Ivan raised his axe and rested it on his shoulder.

“Where do I go to make contact with Daionar Erickson?”